Hercule Poirot arrived at Carslop Street, his demeanor calm but with a trace of urgency in his steps. His efficient secretary, Miss Lemon, had arranged for a taxi without questioning his sudden request, as was her custom. She was ever-reliable, a paragon of precision and discretion.

When the cab stopped in front of the Happy Clover restaurant, Poirot scanned the surroundings but saw no sign of Mrs. Oliver. Though she could be remarkably resourceful when blending into the background, he felt a twinge of disappointment. He walked leisurely to the end of the street and doubled back, considering that she might be discreetly observing the suspicious pair. Standing at the restaurant’s entrance, he peered through the fogged glass windows, but the view revealed little. Determined, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The atmosphere within was muted, thick with the aroma of coffee and greasy eggs. Poirot’s sharp eyes quickly located Norma, seated alone at a table against the wall. A cup of coffee, long gone cold, and a half-burnt cigarette lay before her. Her vacant stare and tense posture spoke of a deep inner turmoil. Poirot approached quietly and sat across from her.

“I am most pleased to see you again, mademoiselle,” he said warmly, his voice carrying a note of familiarity.

Norma looked up, her gaze unfocused at first, then sharpening with recognition. “Oh, it’s you.”

“That you remember me is an honor,” Poirot replied with a small smile, his hand instinctively adjusting his mustache.

Norma studied him uncertainly. “Of course I remember. Your mustache… it’s unforgettable.”

Poirot’s smile deepened, tinged with pride. “Indeed, my mustache is unrivaled.” He paused deliberately before continuing. “Mademoiselle Norma Restarick. The name has a certain familiarity, does it not?”

Norma froze, her expression turning wary. “How do you know my name?”

“A mutual friend mentioned it,” Poirot said lightly, his pleasant demeanor betraying nothing of his intent.

Norma’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What friend? Why would anyone tell you my name?”

“Ah, you enjoy secrets, as do I,” Poirot countered, his tone playful yet calming.

Norma seemed on the verge of speaking but hesitated. Her fingers fidgeted with the cigarette, avoiding his gaze.

“I recall you visited me once,” Poirot continued, his voice gentle but firm. “You said you thought you might have committed murder.”

Norma’s eyes widened in alarm, her voice faltering. “That… that was just a joke. I wasn’t serious.”

“A joke?” Poirot echoed, feigning incredulity. “You came to my home, uninvited and distressed, simply for a joke?”

Norma looked down, clearly flustered. At that moment, a waitress approached Poirot and handed him a folded paper crane. “This is for you, sir.”

Poirot unfolded it carefully. The note inside, written in hasty scrawl, read: He just left. She’s still here, and I’ve left her with you. I’m following him. – Ariadne.

Poirot’s lips curled into a slight smile as he tucked the paper into his pocket. He turned his attention back to Norma.

“Shall we continue our conversation, mademoiselle?” he prompted.

Norma hesitated, then spoke haltingly. “They all think I’m crazy… and maybe I am.”

“Crazy?” Poirot’s tone was measured, inviting her to elaborate. “That is a word often used too freely. Perhaps you are simply confused, or burdened by too much stress.”

“I… I hate my stepmother. I hate my father too. That’s where it all starts,” she said, her voice trembling as emotions bubbled to the surface.

“When your mother passed, and your father remarried, was that difficult for you to accept?” Poirot asked gently.

Norma nodded, her voice rising with frustration. “He should have cared about me, not her. He just caters to her every whim and shuts me out.”

Poirot observed her closely, his voice steady as he probed further. “Do you think this feeling of rejection has overwhelmed you, perhaps even clouded your actions?”

Tears welled in Norma’s eyes. “I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t even remember what I’ve done. Like the time I found myself outside her room… holding a gun. I don’t even know how it got there.”

Poirot leaned in slightly, his voice calm but deliberate. “Did someone take the gun from you?”

“It was Claudia,” Norma whispered. “She took it and made me drink something to calm me down.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully, piecing together fragments of the puzzle. “And what happened to the gun after that? Do you recall anything else?”

Norma shook her head, her expression distant. “I don’t know. Maybe… maybe I really did something terrible.”

Poirot did not rush to reassure her. Instead, he replied with quiet conviction, “The answer may not be as you fear. But rest assured, I will help you uncover the truth.”

Before the conversation could continue, Norma abruptly stood up. She paid her bill quickly, her movements jittery, and left the restaurant in a flurry of confusion.

Poirot watched her leave, murmuring to himself, “This is far more intricate than it appears.” He ordered a coffee and remained seated, lost in deep thought about the layers of mystery surrounding Norma Restarick.